1945: The Fight For Survival and Liberation

The New Year afforded me no cause for celebration. My father's untimely death at the age of fifty was more painful for me than I ever could have imagined. I was still very weak from my encounter with typhoid, which did not help my recovery. I lost my appetite and the will to live. I was alone in the world, not knowing if any other member of our family survived. My fate seemed dismal. If a strong, athletic boy like me had problems staying alive, how could I expect my uncles or my Aunt Klara or her children to survive? I had no idea what had happened to my Uncle Meir or where he had been shipped from Dachau. I remembered my Uncles Marton and Dudye were both in Budapest, and Laci was with a Hungarian work brigade. Only dark thoughts crossed my mind.

I was in a block whose Block·„·ltester was a Greek Jew named Bepo, one of the better block leaders. It took some urging from my Czech friend in the office to have me transferred into Bepo's block. A few weeks after my fever broke, Bepo kept me on the sick list to spare me long marches to and from the work place, and to toil at the underground project. Noticing that I was not eating my food, he rebuked me for my loss of interest in living. He had been a prisoner since 1942 and had suffered unbearably. He, too, had lost all his brothers, and knew nothing about his parents. "You must survive," he yelled. "You cannot let them win so easily." He sat with me for a long time, then left me alone with my thoughts. I slowly realized that he was right. What would I accomplish? Maybe one of our family members did survive. I started eating again.

The news from the front was reassuring. No doubt remained about who would win the war. It no longer mattered that Germany was still putting its last hope in the secret weapons it planned to introduce shortly. The only questions were, will we still be here? Will the Allies have anyone to liberate besides the Germans themselves?

In February of that year, we could see hundreds of Allied bombers flying overhead for destinations unknown. It was no longer a secret that German cities were being bombed regularly. When the sirens sounded, everybody had to stay in their blocks. At the work place, we were herded into a shed while the SS hurried into protective bunkers. That suited us just fine. The typhoid epidemic was largely over. However, we still had lice in even greater numbers. Having taken their toll, the lice could harm us no longer. We were now immune to them.

Increasing numbers of new transports of prisoners, poor devils who were hungry and weak like us, arrived at regular intervals. They were from different camps nearby. Typhoid had also decimated their ranks. So many prisoners had died during that winter that the camps were largely empty. A number of them could be closed by shifting their population to other half-empty camps. The Germans surely gloated that the final solution was progressing satisfactorily. It would only be a short time now.

My own survival became precarious for two reasons, each independent of the other, each making my life more miserable and despairing. The first turn for the worse came when I was shifted to a block where a prisoner named Zsulty, a Jew originally from Poland, was the Block”ltester. This beast was a former Block”ltester in Auschwitz. He had left his home as a youth to seek his fortune in Paris, where he was arrested and deported to Germany, winding up in Auschwitz. He was street smart even in his youth and frequently boasted about his wily exploits. Zsulty had managed to survive all the camps, including Auschwitz and Birkenau. In Kaufering, his credentials afforded him a prompt promotion.

He was tall and muscular, sadistic to the extreme, but smart. His everyday ritual consisted of standing at the narrow entrance, hitting every man returning from work with a rubber hose. And he beat us frequently at whim, urging his helpers to follow suit. While making sure everybody got a bowl of soup - from the watery part of the top of the barrel he also made sure that plenty of thick soup from the bottom was left for himself, his helpers, and his friends from other blocks. Even our bread portions seemed smaller. I had to find a way to escape this torture.

An opportunity came along shortly thereafter. A number of our men worked the night shift which was short-staffed because the nights were cold and the hours long. The group had to leave about 5:00 p.m. and would return about 7:00 am. They were lodged in a separate block and could sleep until about 5:00 p.m. But in practice, this relief was seldom enjoyed, because the night shift was used for all kinds of work inside the camp while all the day shifts were outside. I knew all that, but I also knew that working the night shift would afford me a chance to be in camp during the day and speak to my "Czech connection". Being away the whole day did not present such a possibility.

It took a week for me to arrange, through artifice, a change to the night shift and two more weeks to contact the Czech who finally negotiated my transfer to my old block with Mr. Zsulty. He was advised to behave civilly. The wily Mr. Zsulty knew enough not to create more enemies for himself. He realized that my friend had the ear of the Lager”lteste, the head of the camp. It would not be profitable for Mr. Zsulty to offend his superiors.

Mr. Zsulty never touched me again. I got my due rations in full, often supplemented with an extra bowl of soup. Once, I told him that I felt feverish and asked to be sent to the revir (a type of hospital). He thought I would be better off staying in his block, where he kept me for two days, against regulations. I do not know how Mr. Zsulty fared from the end of February to the time of liberation. I had been shifted from Kaufering to Landsberg Camp No.4, then back to Camp No.1 and finally to No.7. I did not encounter him again. I later learned from other freed prisoners that after liberation he became, of all things, the Mayor of Landsberg the city in which Hitler was imprisoned for anti-state activities in 1931-32. As for Mr. Zsulty, so many former inmates registered complaints and testified to his cruelty, mainly while in Auschwitz, that he was sentenced to seven years in prison. He probably served much less time. Wherever he is now, I am sure he is doing fine, since he was not one of those who gets lost easily under any circumstances. He certainly deserved a much stiffer punishment for having saved his own neck at the high cost of his fellow inmates' lives. I wonder how so many SS, SD, and Gestapo members managed to escape punishment. Dr. Mengele, who murdered people by the thousands with his selections and tortured several hundred twins with his experiments, spent over five years in his hometown, before escaping to Brazil. The Allies were swift in punishing Mr. Zsulty, however mildly, but not so efficient in apprehending and condemning the real killers.

The second event to endanger my life was the loss of my shoes; the canvas completely fell apart. The delay in obtaining replacements would be endless. I had to work, shoes or no shoes. During the winter, not too many of us survived without shoes. In fact, that's how my best friend, Harry Zicherman lost his brother Lajos. On the day my shoes disintegrated, my feet turned bluish-green. The pain was excruciating. Back in camp that evening, my fellow-inmates massaged my feet to restore circulation. The next morning they somehow found a pair of mangled but still wearable shoes belonging to an inmate who had died during the evening. May that unknown inmate - who conceivably died that I might live - rest in peace!

Life in the camp had become somewhat easier toward the beginning of March. For one thing, the winter was almost over. Surprisingly, spring came earlier than usual to Bavaria. During the day, the sun was strong enough to warm our weary bones. Not much work was done in this period. The air raids intensified, the alarms lasting sometimes for hours, so that we were not even led out of the camp.

Sometimes, you could hear that the bombing was nearby. Once we had the impression that Munich was being bombed. And indeed it was. The next day I managed to get into a unit that was taken to the main Munich railroad station. To my joyful surprise, I found the station half-gone, some of the freight cars a complete loss, while others still had their cargo intact. Incredibly, the passenger trains kept coming and going on the few tracks already repaired.

It was our job to clear the freight from the freight cars and load it into military and civilian trucks. It was not really hard work. The OT (Organization Tod), a civilian work force mostly composed of those of German ancestry (Volksdeutsche) did most of the labor. The OT were aware of the imminent end of the thousand-year Reich and quite openly volunteered their opinions. One of them reminded me of my Grandmother Mali. He said: "The war will not be over until Hitler stops sending us older people to the front." Yet, the OT themselves were short of food, cigarettes, and proper shelter.

I managed to get into a car loaded with bags of sugar, some of which we contrived to open. Since we had no containers of any kind, we packed ourselves with the sugar, stuffing it wherever possible. Some of our boys had good pockets. Some filled their caps with it. I tied down my pants and filled them with sugar up to my knees. Most of us managed to smuggle in the bounty. Some were caught, but got away with a few kicks and, of course, the loot was confiscated. I walked as if on wooden legs, in the middle of the pack, so as not to be seen.

Once inside, I knew I could not keep the sugar, for we had no lockers or places to put anything aside. We had all of our possessions with us at all times. I knew a few of the more honest Block”ltesters who would buy the sugar from me in exchange for bread or soup.

I made a deal with one Greek, who promised to give me a total of three portions of bread and soup every night for a week. The price was determined by the buyer who was able to pay for it. The deal worked well. The man kept his promise and for a week I had some additional food. In the process of collecting my soup and bread, I recall an incident that still makes me laugh. It was well known that the Greeks were skilled pickpockets and thieves, especially those from the Salonika area. One evening, as I came to collect my sugar reward, I had to walk all the way to the back where the Block”ltester had his place. I had just received my own ration in my block, eaten my soup, and put away the bread inside my shirt. I buttoned up my shirt and jacket and walked into the Greek's block. By the time I reached the end of the walk I noticed my jacket and shirt were open and the bread was missing. I said to my contact: "Look, I came here to you for what you promised me, but I was robbed right here in your block. I lost my bread." He yelled out a name; an inmate came forward and the block leader ordered: "Give him back his bread right now!" The man left and returned with my bread. The leader had guessed correctly who the culprit was. He assured me this would not happen again.

I went to Munich a few times. I did not always have sugar, but I managed to take along something. Once I carried about ten potatoes. I made a deal with someone who had access to a fire, and I got back five cooked potatoes. One deal went sour. I asked a civilian at the station for a cigarette, while the SS guards were some distance away. To my surprise he took out two cigars and gave them to me. They were precious cargo, which could be cut into many cigarettes, using newspaper for cigarette paper. I sold them to a block leader for a week's supply of soup, the best deal I could make that evening. Unfortunately, after the second time he refused to honor our contract.

On one visit to Munich, I saw something unbelievable and unexpected. A middle-aged man, not more than thirty-five to forty years old and wearing civilian clothing, was moving about freely, without any supervision as far as I could see. The peculiar thing that got me so excited, however, was a white armband on his coat sleeve with the word JUDE ("Jew") clearly printed in large letters. My information was that Jews no longer lived in Germany, save those few who managed to hide. For some time, Germany had been proclaimed Judenfrei ("free of Jews"). I had no chance to talk to him. He noticed me, too, and surely knew who I was. I hope he survived. I would have liked to know how he was privileged to be free!

April was approaching. The days were quite warm. We had no work, and our guards seemed to be less aggressive, some appeared to be repenting. One Rumanian guard, whom I knew from Warsaw, spoke Hungarian. He approached me near the fence and whispered: "The war will be over in a few days. The Americans will be here soon. I hope you did not forget that I never did any harm to the Jews." He explained how he was forced into the service - a likely story!

Air raids became more frequent, but many of our boys were at the end of their endurance. Help had to come quickly if any of us were to be saved. I was now filled with hope that maybe, just maybe, many of us could survive if only the Germans would run away and leave us alone. I had to take care of Mojse Pikkel, the uncle who was a few years my junior. We were now, not by our own design, but by Providence, a group from Chust in the same block. We kept together, now that we no longer went out to work. The oldest among us was Josef Chaim Davidovits, an old friend of my father's. The Davidovitses had a sawmill in Felso Bishtra and a brick factory in Chust. I knew them welt especially Josef Chaim, with whom we used to deal quite a bit. He was pessimistic about getting out alive. I tried to instill some hope into the whole group; I think I succeeded somewhat although even I was not convinced about our chances.

One afternoon, we were all outside our block. The sun was warm and the air raid alarm sounded. We were not allowed to move during the alarm, so we just sat there and talked about anything that came into our minds. Josef Chaim again talked about our chances for survival, which I vehemently challenged. In that gloomy ambience, I said we now had a good chance of surviving if we did not lose hope, tried to preserve our strength, and thought positively. The recognition of the correctness and usefulness of my lecture came a few years later.

We survived as best we could, but the food was getting to be a problem. Our rations were cut, under the pretense that while idling most of the time, we needed fewer calories per day. Another surprise reached us in the form of civilian refugees, Germans, whose houses had been destroyed by Allied bombing. There were no shelters for them, so they filled up all the empty concentration camps built for the Jews. When the empty camps were packed to overflowing, we had to squeeze together and surrender a few blocks to the new tenants. Of course, all in all, this was music to our ears: to see members of the German "Herrenrasse" (master race) on their knees, though naturally they were free to come and go as they pleased. These were mostly women with children, with some older folks among them. The young men were probably away in the service of the fatherland. Officially, we were not allowed any contact with the refugees. But since there were no fences between us, we managed to talk to them. Ironically, everybody was against Hitler. Nobody was a Nazi, and nobody knew of the existence of concentration camps. They all must have been blind not to see us march through their cities to and from our work places.

We noticed that the families of the SS personnel were packing. This was a good sign, but we wondered when this would be over, and under what circumstances. The days were now passing extremely slowly. With nothing to do but let our minds wander, we could only dream of having enough food to appease our terrible hunger. One agonizing day followed another while we watched more of our comrades pass away. If we were to survive, the Messiah had to come now! Before that happened we still had to go through tremendous suffering and great anxiety. We knew that something was bound to happen, but not soon enough. The civilians told us that the Americans were no farther than sixty kilometers away. At night, we could hear the planes in unending streams, flying overhead. They must have bombed every inch of Germany.

On the 24th of April the end to our travails seemed imminent. We were ordered to assemble at the gates in the usual formation at 6:00 am. the next day. We were marching to a new camp, destination not disclosed. Speculation abounded.

We started the next morning. The weather was good, a nice spring day was breaking, not too hot to march. I do not remember exactly whether we received some provisions then or later on our way. Whatever the case, I do recall the very long span without food. We were taken through villages in full sight of the German civilian population. In one small village, the farmers tried to give us some cooked potatoes and turnips, but the guards prevented them. Some of our men managed to catch a potato or turnip, but the majority continued without food. We stopped twice that day, near farms, and rested for about two hours. Water was available nearby.

On the road, we overtook other camp internees also marching in the same direction. Their pace was much slower, yet they seemed in no danger of being shot in the back by their guards, who looked as though they were awaiting the advancing Americans. We spent the night in a field - a night so cold that Mojse and I put our blankets together and gathered some leaves underneath us. It made the cold a little more bearable. One of our friends sleeping near us disappeared during the night. A long search for him was fruitless; he had vanished. In 1961, while telling a friend in Israel about the mysterious disappearance of Josse Davidovits, I learned to my astonishment that he had escaped that night and knocked on the door of a farmer, who gave him food and told him to hide in the stable. Two days later, he was liberated. His mother, sister and another brother also survived. Only their father did not. They were a lucky family compared to most others.

Our second day was a repetition of the first, with some changes in our ranks. For one thing, it seemed that some of our faithful guards, who had sworn loyalty to Hitler forever and ever, his most trusted brothers-in-arms, defected at night. They left a smaller band of cutthroats to guard us. Some of our Block·„·ltesters and capos, mostly Jews, were now carrying rifles. Most of us were not sure what was happening. Toward evening, we met a group of Hungarian soldiers marching in a disorderly fashion with no officer in sight. They told us they had thrown away their rifles. The war was over. All they wanted to do was get home. Well, the war was over, but where were we going? It was not yet over for us.

Again we slept in a field, half-starved. I recall getting a piece of bread and a small piece of the usual liverwurst. In our midst were some experienced old-timers, some in camp since 1941 and longer--many of them German Jews like our Lagerf¸hrer, Ralph. He was now carrying a rifle and, since I knew him from Warsaw, I approached him with the urgent question as to our future. We were only a day or two away from being free men but where were we going? To Dachau and the awful life and death it represented? The destructive capacity of that camp was well known but he assured me that this would never happen. Several of our boys had managed to escape, he told me. The remaining SS had been warned that if they destroyed us, they would suffer our fate. Undoubtedly some of the escapees would survive and be able to identify the murderers. For that reason, the SS allowed us to carry weapons as a "goodwill" gesture and as a sign that our destruction was not planned.

The next day, in late afternoon, we reached Dachau. Where were all those nice words from our own comrades? The city was full of uniformed people from different services: Wehrmacht, SS, and Police. Civilians were also in sight, mostly women. We now knew of the doublecross. Our Jewish comrades no longer had the weapons. What was happening? We were driven at a faster pace and all this added to our panic. While we had--at least, some of us--a good chance of escaping in the open terrain, here in the city there was absolutely no chance. The old timers were adding to the doom and gloom with their "everything is now over" commentaries.

We kept marching, but where was the camp? Again we came to open spaces outside the city limits, and were allowed to rest. Where was the camp? Perhaps just down the highway outside the city? Nobody knew. It must have been around 6:00 p.m. when we were ordered to continue our march. I noticed a road sign pointing in the direction we were taking: "Allach bei Dachau 12 kilometers." Were we going to Allach? Was there a camp at Allach? Had anybody heard of it? Some of the old-timers knew but they could not tell us what kind of camp it was. We had arrived after dark and off in the distance we could see the watchtowers, the fences and the bright lights at the gates. I was in the middle of the column, with Mojse always at my side. We stood there for a long time thinking maybe this would be our last night. It seems everybody was now resigned to whatever might come. We all fought for survival, to tell the world about the great tragedy of the Jews. When death is near, the past flashes through one's head. I could remember things long forgotten. I remembered Chust and my grandparents and uncles and aunts, all the cousins, the neighbors, the friends, and the places. I remembered Volove, my Bubbe Sara, my Aunt Klara and all the others. I remembered Wyszkov, and all the good times we had there with my brother, Sanyi. I remembered my Great-Grandfather Shmiel, that wonderful, dignified, wise person with his imposing white beard and smiling eyes. We were still standing and more memories engulfed me.

I felt a push. The column continued its march toward the gate. We were not even counted, an omission never occurring before. Were the meticulous Germans no longer interested in how many they would destroy? Well, maybe it no longer mattered. After another hour or so, we were led to a block. Inside we found bunks. Nobody told us anything. We just lay down. We did not even bother to take off our shoes. I fell asleep but woke very early. Most were still sleeping. I crept to a window, where I found three or four others peering out. What we saw was hard to believe. The watchtowers were fully lighted, with white sheets wildly blowing from them, and instead of the usual SS guards, we saw our own inmates in striped uniforms guarding the camp. There was not an SS in sight. I woke Mojse and the rest of the block awakened slowly. We went out and approached the tower. The inmate guards kept telling us to go back. "You are free," one kept repeating, "but please go back. There is still some shooting going on." He showed us a big hole in the fence, which had been pierced by a cannon shell.

I went back to pick up another of our friends, Hershi Krantz, and told him, "Let's get out of here. We have a better chance to wait for the Americans outside." We left.

Through the opening in the fence, we managed to cross the fields and reach a paved road. We had no idea which way to turn. Besides, our stomachs demanded top priority, as we hadn't eaten for a considerable time. There was nothing to be lost now by approaching a farm. Everyone knew that the war was over, and all the farmhouses now had white sheets flying visibly from their rooftops. We approached the first farm and demanded politely to be given food. To our surprise, the farmer and his wife invited us into the dining room and brought forth all kinds of food we had not seen since we left home: cheeses, eggs, jam, butter and bread to our hearts' delight. Milk, even ersatz coffee was put before us. We knew well that our stomachs were not used to such fatty foods. We had all witnessed the deadly effects of diarrhea in camp. I cautioned my two fellow wanderers to go easy on the butter and whole milk, and stick with the bread, cottage cheese and an egg.

We ventured out of the farmer's house and hit the road. After only about fifteen minutes, we met the first three American soldiers. I asked them for a cigarette. They gave us each a pack. We were surprised when they stopped and wanted to talk to us. They told us to sit near them, and with great difficulty we managed to communicate. My long forgotten English lessons helped somewhat. Our hands and facial expressions did the rest.

To my surprise, My Uncle Mojse remembered the address of his brother, Chaim, in the Bronx, which he gave the soldier, explaining that I was Chaim's nephew, Tibi, and had been liberated along with him. The American marked everything down and gave us each a "novelty", a package of "K" rations. I thought the Americans we met were extraordinary men, but I was skeptical about them going to the trouble of writing to my Uncle Chaim in the Bronx.

I must have lost faith in the human race. But I was delighted to learn, after the war, from my Great-Aunt Freida Spinrad, that Chaim had indeed received a letter from one of the Americans, giving the address of the camp in Allach. He, in turn, sent us some money, which was returned to him, for we were no longer at the camp.

We thanked the Americans and started to walk off. It no longer mattered which way we went. The Americans called us back and told us to go in the opposite direction to avoid the "boom-boom" of American bombs. We understood and thanked them. Soon we met another group of Americans, one of whom spoke a broken Yiddish. We got some more ·"·K" rations and cigarettes. With our sudden riches, we had to find a bag for our gifts. It must have been almost noon, judging by our stomachs, and time to pay a visit to another farmer. This was the day of our liberation, the 28th of April 1945, a day full of surprises. We approached a neat-looking farm where to our great joy we found five colleagues from our camp in full control of the premises. They had simply told the farmer to make room for them in the house as they wished to stay there for a few days until the situation in camp got organized. The farmer had protested vigorously. But the boys had found sympathetic ears in a group of American soldiers, now streaming down the road en masse. The soldiers had ordered the whole farmer's family out into the stables and demanded that they supply us with food and shelter. The farmer was told that they would be back to make sure we were well treated. Fearing that we would be left unprotected when the soldiers departed, we secured a letter stating that we were allowed to remain indefinitely on the farm by order of the U.S. Army. When the farmer rebelled, all we had to do now was walk down the road and show the letter to any American. The farmer quickly complied.

Of course, our colleagues welcomed us to the farm with open arms. We spent about two weeks there, making daily forays to the nearby villages and small towns. Everywhere we went, we met inmates from different camps, now all free again. We got free haircuts from a local barber. Although we told him we had no money to pay him, he very willingly obliged us with his services. During one of our outings, we stumbled into an SS warehouse, guarded by U.S. soldiers. We did not need to use much persuasion to be admitted. What treasures we found! Stocks of liquor and boxes of cigars. The cigarettes were all gone, but there was sugar by the ton, along with underwear and uniforms. We were not interested in the liquor, but the cigars had some value to us. The underwear and shoes came in handy. We emptied bags of sugar and filled them with our loot.

We would have probably stayed even longer, but news came from our camp that the Czechoslovakian government was searching for its citizens. The boys from Poland and Hungary stayed on, but the three of us left for camp. Our comrades insisted that we take some food to the other inmates. We hitched a horse and wagon and loaded it with a wheel of cheese - probably two meters in diameter. The farmer begged us to turn the horse around so that it could find its way home, which we did.

Ironically, getting into camp, now under the supervision of Americans, was not easy. It was strictly organized. The food was carefully distributed, for the American doctors knew of the dangers of rich food fed to starving people. The camp now had a hospital and the blocks were properly maintained. The bunks had blankets and mattresses.

The Americans now guarding the gates did not grant easy admittance without adherence to definite rules. As former inmates, we had no problem getting in, but the wheel of cheese was instantly confiscated. The three of us vigorously protested. We were brought before our new commander of the camp, a Captain Schneider or Sneider. I believe he was Jewish. A former Greek inmate who spoke English was now the official translator for the Captain. He interpreted the Captain's long speech about discipline and the need to control the food supply to avoid illness from the rich, fatty food. We surrendered the cheese but were allowed to keep the cigars.

The Czech officer was already gone but promised to return the following week. There was nothing left to do but to wait. We were told in camp about some delousing procedure the Americans used. They sprayed some powder and magically the next day there were hardly any lice left. The three of us, newcomers to the camp, were ordered to take a shower. We were led outside the camp and into a field. Under a canopy, the Americans had erected a bath facility with about twenty neatly arranged shower heads. The camp went through this ritual every week. When we came out of the shower, a soldier rubbed us dry with a large towel and our clothes were sprayed with a white powder. Only years later did I learn about DDT.

All my respect goes to the Americans, who treated us well and with dignity. When a delegation of our camp complained to Captain Schneider that too many of our colleagues were still dying every day, he replied: "Gentlemen, I am very well aware of that, and it concerns me deeply. I was told by our medical staff that your friends, who are dying now, were actually, for all practical purposes, dead when we arrived. It is because of our care that we managed to prolong their lives. We saved many, but cannot save all." I absolutely believe this.

The next week, an officer from the Czechoslovakian army arrived and the three of us reported to him. We learned that our transport home - Czechoslovakia - was to leave in three days. Only one other government, France, took care of its citizens the same way. The Poles, Greeks and Hungarians had to get home on their own, by any means they could muster. During our stay at the farm, all of us got so fat that it was almost embarrassing to stand before the Czech officer. I explained how we spent the two weeks on a farm gorging. All three of us being young, we adapted quickly and could now eat any food without difficulty. I had become so fat, however, that I had trouble moving about. I believe that since our bodies were not used to proper and regular food consumption, our systems, while adapting to the changes, digested only part of our intake and stored the rest. Just as I had gained weight, I lost it later in only a few weeks without ever going on a diet.

Three days later, about ten large buses picked us up at the gate, and it was goodbye comrades and goodbye camp - back to freedom. We were still together, the three of us, but we knew soon that it would be each one for himself. It was a homecoming of sorts, but nobody of importance would be waiting for us.

We arrived in Pilzen (the home of the famous Pilsen beer) and were given a warm welcome by representatives of the government. Each of us received 500 Kcs. and since rationing was still in effect, we were given food coupons and cigarettes Next, we were taken to our former homes. I decided to stay in Prague, for there I had a better chance of meeting some returnees from my family. There was still hope that somebody else survived.

After a few days in Prague, I left my two friends comfortably installed in a hostel for returnees. They made daily tours to Wenceslas Square, the meeting place of returnees. The citizens of Prague respected the commonly known fact that one corner of the square was reserved for our people. I returned to Jablonec. Nobody of the Jewish faith had yet come back. I stayed there three or four days, and returned to Prague.

In the interim, some friends had returned, and we were all happy to see one another, but no one from my immediate family appeared. One day, walking toward the square, Mojse spied Hershel and yelled out to me, "Look, there is Zicherman!" Indeed it was Hershel. We were together again. Serving in a Hungarian work brigade, he was one of only a few from his unit who managed to survive. His survival was surprising; he was always a skinny boy, not suitable for any physical work. We each related our travails since we last were together. His experiences were no less dramatic than mine.

At last my two cousins, Hedi and Elvi, arrived in Prague, followed shortly by Zanvel Hoffman. Now this group stayed together for a considerable time. My Aunt, Manci Pilckel arrived next, and Mojse naturally left us to be with his sister.

Slowly, news spread about who survived and who was where. Even without modern communication facilities, mostly destroyed in a horrible war, it did not take long to find out about the fate of families. There were some happy reunions of husbands and wives, mothers and children, sisters and brothers. But there was also tremendous sorrow. There was hardly a family that did not suffer great losses.

Next, we decided to travel to Budapest, where our Uncle Marton had lived and where we hoped to find him alive. But travelling was not easy. Trains were overloaded and rarely on time. We hopped from station to station. We managed to get to Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, the anti-Semitic nation that remains unpunished for its crimes as a willing collaborator of the Germans. True, Hlinka, the former President, and Tiso, the Prime Minister, were hanged, a small price to pay for delivering the whole Jewish population to the Germans. Most of the Slovaks were guilty, but only some of them were punished, thanks to their former association with the Republic of Czechoslovakia.

We finally arrived in Budapest. Czechoslovakian trains were jammed but bearable. People travelled in Hungary mostly by freight cars or on rooftops of the coach cars. A number of people died by either falling from the roof of a train or standing up and not noticing an approaching overpass or tunnel entrance. No good news was waiting for us in Budapest. Uncle Marton had not been heard from since the end of 1944, but his daughter, Big Hedi was living with her second husband in Buda, across the river from Pest. We met her later on our return from Bucharest.

Hungary, a conquered country, was in complete ruin. Budapest was partly in ruin. Two months of German resistance was clearly visible. Although no government was operating yet, Hungary was fully occupied by the Russian Army. It took a while for the Russians to set up their puppet regime there.

I could tell you a few stories about the behavior of the Russian soldiers, especially those from the Asiatic part of Russia Rape, looting, even murder were daily occurrences. Watches were in particular great demand. Some of the soldiers wore several watches, robbed from civilians on the streets. Many did not even know how to wind them and set the time. It was not uncommon to undress people right on the street and take away their clothing. One Russian soldier took pity on me for having to wear the old clothing I was given in Germany. He asked me whether I would like a nice suit. Thinking he had a cache of stolen clothing somewhere, I said, "Yes, I could use a nice suit." He stopped a man on the street, called me over and asked, "Do you like this suit?" Thinking that he had something similar to give me, I said, "Yes." He promptly ordered the poor man to undress and give me the suit. It took some talking to persuade the Russian to let the man go, for the suit was too large for me.

We finally heard that our Uncle Laci was in Kolozsvar, now again a part of Rumania So we tried to get there as expeditiously as the traffic would allow but the trip took a few days. (This time we got separated from Zanvel Hoffman.) We reached our destination, and, to our regret, our uncle was no longer there. He had left for Chust, now again part of Czechoslovakia. By this time, I was a rich man, possessing about 20,000 Kcs. from the sale of my cigars in Prague. On the way to Kolozsvar, we had to stop at the town of Mihalyfalva, and there I found Mendel Stern, an old friend of mine. He was in the cigarette export trade, renting Russian trucks, hiring drivers, and then selling truckloads of cigarettes in Czechoslovakia. In return, he brought back window panes, in big demand in Rumania. He gave me a bunch of Lei, the Rumanian currency, without even counting it. In Kolozsvar, I found my friend, Srul Yankel Hoffman from Chust. He was also in some kind of export business with the Russians. He insisted that I stay with him for a few weeks, which I did. Hedi decided to go back to Chust and find Laci. She left and I was sorry that I bad let her go. I do not remember whether Elvi went with her or stayed with us. In any event, Hedi returned very quickly, mission accomplished, with our uncle in tow.

Laci decided to go to Bucharest, so we went there, too. We then returned to Budapest, and finally discovered where Big Hedi was living in Buda. It wasn't too late when we arrived but Hedi was already in bed. Under the circumstances, one would have expected her to at least get up and offer us a glass of water. Little Hedi, in fact, asked if she could have a glass of water. But because the house was damaged in an air attack, it was necessary to get the water next door, and Big Hedi did not volunteer to undertake such an exhausting walk

I am writing this just to show the kind of relationship that had developed among the four surviving cousins. The next time I heard from Hedi was many years later, from Germany. Her husband was killed while skiing in the Alps, and she was on her way to the States. Though not yet well off, I sent her some money, $100, I believe. She received money from her other two cousins as well. She wound up in California, and both girls helped her immensely. She was married again, this time to a Hungarian scientist, Andre Nowotny. They moved to Philadelphia She attended our daughter Eleanois wedding and visited us in Montreal on two separate occasions. Our relationship has cooled off completely since then. I imagine she inherited a hatred for the Friedmans from her mother.

Uncle Laci and the three of us moved on to Austria Then Laci and the girls went hitchhiking, via truck all the way to Germany. I stayed in Austria for a week and then returned alone to Jablonec. By then, several Jewish families had been living there, trying to establish a Jewish community. The temple was burned, but our community house was returned to us, and soon we had a place of worship, with a Torah in place.

Because our house was under rent controL it would take some time before a court could grant final approval for transfer. In the meantime, I was given permission to evict one of the tenants and take possession of his apartment. I was now fully set up in my own large residence.

I did not yet have any thoughts about my future. For the moment, I was concentrating on just functioning day to day. I knew a lot of very influential people, including the Mayor of the city, and many department heads in City Hall. My wardrobe had now improved dramatically. I was content to get 5,000 cigarettes at a time from my friend Mendel Stern for an excellent price and sell them at a good profit. This, of course, was black marketeering, but I did not lose any sleep over that. As long as my money lasted, I did absolutely nothing. When my capital was getting low, another load of cigarettes would come in from my friend.

My evenings were spent in nightclubs. Many days started at noon, first to the barber for a shave, then to lunch at a restaurant. In the afternoons, I took a trip to the railroad station to see if anybody new had arrived from Germany.

It was on one such occasion that Abraham Bernstein arrived in our town with his œwife and sixteen-year old daughter. They had lost their son in Germany. Bernstein had been an excellent pastry baker in Chust and would have no difficulty now finding a job in any good hotel. But finding a place to live was a much more difficult task. I invited them to stay with me in my large apartment. I moved into the smallest room and gave them the run of the house. They stayed with me several weeks. It was fine with me, since now I had somebody to talk to during the day when I was at home.

Money did not interest me much, nor did I have any interest in the opposite sex. I was not yet in control of all my senses. Sometimes, my thinking was rational, sometimes, it was completely absent. I knew that this condition could not last forever. I still suffered from the camp syndrome which did not allow me to think of tomorrow. Live for today, who knew what tomorrow would bring. A half-million Hungarians from Slovakia were being returned to Hungary. The German population of three and a half million was being expelled from Czechoslovakia and sent back to Germany. Before the war, I had known many Germans, some of them now sought my help to postpone their expulsion or to get them an allowance for more than the allotted thirty kilograms of luggage. With the exception of two or three cases, where I knew for sure that they were not Nazis nor took part in any atrocities against the Jews, I helped. One Alfred Schafer, for instance, was a confirmed anti-Nazi who was himself imprisoned for a time. My father told me about him, how helpful he was to him in 1938. I arranged for him to take all his baggage on the train, along with his entire family, which was not always permitted. Another case involved my former mathematics professor, Konig. He was certainly not a Nazi; he had lost a brother in a concentration camp.

1945 was coming to a close. More Jewish families arrived, but precious few natives. We now had a Jewish community of Polish, Hungarian, and Slovak Jews, but only three or four from prewar Jablonec. The Bernsteins were still staying at my place and Abraham was now working in a fine hotel, making a name for himself as the fine pastry chef he really was. But they still could not find an apartment.

In October, I prepared lots of coal for the winter. Coal was a commodity that was not easy to come by, so I had to pull a few strings with friends of influence. Mrs. Bernstein casually asked me if I could help them get an apartment, and I promised, not imagining that there was any extra need to act immediately. The next evening, she asked me if I had had any success. I replied that her family was welcome to stay in my place as long as they wished, but why the rush? Now she told me that they had invited a good friend from Bilky, her hometown, to visit and she would not like to impose on me any longer. It took me a week with the rental board to get the Bernsteins preferential treatment, and I got the keys to three different apartments. They picked one on Mozart Street. Before they had time to move, the friend, a young lady, arrived with one of her cousins, a good-looking young man who was a soldier in the Czechoslovak Western Army. They also settled in the apartment and I was now temporarily sleeping with Ernest, the soldier.

Rita Gedajlovic, the young lady, told me she had been in hiding in Budapest during the German occupation of Hungary and lived through some horrifying experiences. Ernest, who happened to be her cousin, had to return to his unit shortly. As a soldier who served in the Czech Army, he was entitled to certain privileges, similar to those of former inmates returning from concentration camps. Before leaving, he wanted to arrange for an apartment for Rita, her two sisters, and his own sister, a total of four.

I did not say anything, but I knew only too well that the rental board had several thousand apartments of former German occupants, with ten times as many applications. It was not a matter of who was more privileged, but the connections one had.

In any event, I had no alternative but to help girls who had suffered as I did and were now left to fend for themselves. They settled in Jablonec in October 1945. In the next chapter, I will let one of my new tenants, the blond one, take up the story.

In the meantime, all of Carpathia was ceded in a "friendly" agreement to Russia. That eliminated forthwith any claim I might have had, with my cousins and Uncle Laci, to any properties there. Laci had to get out in a hurry. The rest of us did not even bother to visit.

So ended 1945 - the year of liberation.